Leonard Snart
by butimnotdeadyet
Summary: Leonard has a problem. Follows the other Legends as they find out
1. Rip

Leonard Snart had a problem.

Technically, he always had, but over thirty years of learning how to control it had meant that most of the desires had become background noise, something ignorable. Until he found himself on that damned ship.

It wasn't bad to begin with, just a new space to become familiar with (easy, since he found the blueprint files on Gideon's mainframe a few nights into their adventure) and unfamiliar faces to study (slightly harder, but no one seemed to bother locking bedroom doors…). But then Leonard realized where his plan to plunder across time was flawed when Rip asked they remain on the ship as much as possible.

Like anyone with a problem, he developed, well... he refused to call them "coping mechanisms". They were just thing that he used or did to help him better control the urges, the most important precautions being his sharing of a room with Mick and always being in close proximity to his cold gun. Before that, it was Lisa and a revolver, knife, book, or whatever he could lay his hands on. He need to be occupied. More specifically, his _hands_ need to be occupied.

They weren't the only offenders, no, sometimes it was a nudging elbow or a space encroaching foot, but they were by far the worst. They would wander mindlessly, curious, trying to _touch._

Because that was his problem. Leonard Snart was _tactile_.

His sister and, later, his partner had long been desensitized to it, his tendency to stroll around, grabbing their random objects only to spin them once or twice in his hands before placing them back exactly where he had found them. He used to do it to others, too, though much less openly, until his father started to use Leonard as his own personal electrical engineer and the touching had to stop because prints, even those of a kid, could mean getting caught.

The first time he was contained for a crime, juvenile hall as a teen, was also the first time anyone outside of his family noticed, but with half a dozen years at developing the skill of avoiding the issue of tactility through his introversion, the counselors fell on the wrong side of the fence, believing him to be physically restrained due to dislike of sensation. They attempted to appeal to him, no doubt hoping that it would support a less criminally inclined lifestyle if they succeeded. But, in true Leonard fashion, he shut them out, while making a great show of slowly 'acclimating' to the things they exposed him to.

Thieves are generally tactile, coveting the idea of holding this, that, or whatever as long as it belongs to someone else, but when he works Leonard shuts down, refusing to so much as brush his very adamant fingertips against anything but the score or something directly related to retrieving it, because once he starts, he will pick up anything of even remote interest. Weapons became a mechanism when he realized that he could get away with keeping them in hand without much suspicion amongst his peers, knowing criminals always want to be the first to draw should the need arise. The cold gun- with its ridiculous size, thigh holster, and it's undeniable danger- had recently become the perfect side arm, always providing an acceptable hand hold in sensory combustive situations.

Throughout his life, Leonard always found prison difficult, though not for the typical reasons. He had no problems with schedules, he usually preferred them, and guards and other inmates made fantastic practice marks. No, his particular problem with mass incarceration was all of the grandiose egos and protectiveness over mundane objects, making finding items to hold his attention for whatever brief amount of time he was inside testing, but again, books and decks of cards were invaluable, keeping him present enough to follow through with the next scheme. To compensate for his senses perceived deprivation, Leonard, somewhat incidentally, trained himself to act as a constant, passive observer, taking in all that he could about his surroundings and the people in them.

Whenever Leonard took a break from the criminal element, home meant the indiscriminate handling of whatever was closest to him. Once, Lisa had come in to find him tossing her shampoo bottle up into the air and catching it, again and again, simply enjoying the feeling of the contents resettling. Another time, when he was sharing with Mick, he sent half an hour rapping his knuckles on various surfaces in the kitchen until the arsonist in the next room decided that he too should give into his stranger compulsions and lit his (Leonard's, that is) bedroom on fire.

His sister had always been a lifeline. When she was still small enough, which was quite a while considering their relative ages, he would convince her to hold his hand in public for the double purpose of keeping her from wandering off -she was quite the adventurer- and to keep him from brushing up against other people's clothes. As they got older, between times that he was thieving and serving time, she would slyly return any wallets he had deftly and needlessly picked or shove a glass or mug into his hands when they visited friends. The former was a preventative action that had seemed ideal, but more often than not led to him being rather heavily intoxicated by the end of whatever public social interaction they were pursuing. In private, Lisa was constantly the victim of countless shoulder massages and hair styling attempts when he need a break from heist planning, both of which built towards their already rather seamless siblinghood and lead to her sporting incredibly intricate braids on a nearly daily basis in her teens and twenties.

Very few others in his life had bothered to learn about his specific inclinations, a lover here or there perhaps, but mostly he went about his life stealing from people and creating a persona that profited from his forced distance. When the particle gun and all that it offered fell into his lap, and the 'Cold' identity came into its own, Leonard had felt secure for the first time in decades, but a half dozen metahumans later he found himself the farthest from his element he had ever been: on a flying time machine with a number of decisively observant strangers.

RIP:

As any proper captain should, Rip Hunter read up on all of his possible recruits. After having Gideon synthesize all relevant information into encrypted documents, he studied everyone from top to bottom, taking special care in the cases of Sara Lance, Ray Palmer, and Leonard Snart.

Rip quickly discovered that Snart was a manipulator of analysis. Due to his multiple arrests and incarcerations -thought it is notable that he had never served a full sentence after he turn 18- there were several corresponding interviews and psychological evaluations, but while each continued in a similar vein of that of the last, everyone drew different conclusions. And each of those played directly to Snart's favor at a later date. Once, he was deemed mentally unstable but benign and was sent to a low security ward, only to escape within a month; another time, he exhibited the opposite traits, highly dangerous and abrasive, which sent him into a high security facility where his stay ended nearly a year later in an explosion and a newly liberated Snart and newly retrieved Mr. Rory. Rip _knew_ the man he was recruiting, but there was next to no hope of _understanding_ him. That is, until he found a piece of a prison med wing video of a heavily medicated, post-surgery Snart where he not only decided to aggressively compliment the attending's physique but also to launch into a somewhat slurred and very expressive story about taking his little sister to a car show that ended with her destruction of a 'borrowed' Thunderbird and disapproving Snart dragging her to a hospital.

Up until seeing the video, Rip had been unsure of Snart's, and by default his partner's, inclusion on the team to stop Savage, fearful that he would be every bit as unsound as the arsonist, but the video ended up being the deciding factor, proving that along with his intelligence, survivor's mentality, and proclivity towards illegal actions, there was a protective and even caring side to his nature.

As for Snart's other tendencies, Rip first noticed them about a week into their mission. He, like most career time travelers, had trouble keeping a regular sleeping schedule. Apparently, the same can be said for career criminals. To nights in a row, the pair spent several hours in separate parts of the common area. The first night Rip had the study and Snart the kitchen, but on the second there seemed to be an unspoken agreement to switch.

Rip's boredom had peaked sometime around 3 a.m. Ship Standard Time, having only limited access to Gideon's systems in the outer rooms, and returned to his study. However, the vantage point for the far doorway allowed him to catch Snart in the act of random touching without fear that the thief could sense eyes on him, due in no small part to his attention being held by his committed exploration. Captain Hunter watched as the older man moved almost systematically around the cluttered area, picking up this and stroking that as he moved. A book sat abandoned on an armrest of the chair that he had seen Snart occupying at the beginning of the night and judging by the page-divide it had held the rouge's attention sufficiently for several hours. Rip was about to knock on the doorframe when he heard muffled footsteps coming down the corridor towards him and turned to see Mr. Rory approach. Mick, obviously curious as to what Rip had been doing, peered past him into the study while Rip waited for his response. And it was not one he expected. The arsonist took two steps back and gestured for Rip to follow him before heading for the weapons room around the corner.

"Look, British," Mick started as the door slide closed behind them, "it's best if you pretend you didn't see that." He settled against a crate, waiting for a remark from Rip.

"Why would it matter? Everyone on board has free reign over the common areas, the study included. I was only watching for my own curiosity ." Rip crossed his arms, sighing, and regretting his apparently unwelcome observation.

"It's just something he does -has the entire time I've known him. Just don't call attention to it, okay? He doesn't like it." Mick ended firmly, hoping that the request would be enough to save his partner any embarrassment.

"Doesn't like what, the attention or the habit?"

"It's not a habit, British, it's- just let him be. He'll get it out of his system pretty soon, and maybe he'll actually go to sleep tonight." Mick paused before adding, "He hasn't, you know. Slept yet, on this boat-"

"Ship or vessel, please." Rip interjected.

Rory scoffed. "I'll call it what I wanna. But, he hasn't. Been nearly a week and I don't think he's slept more than a couple hours in all."

Rip swore that he heard something akin to concern in the firebug's voice, but he nodded saying chalking it up to his own tiredness, "Most people take a while to get fully acclimated to living like this, though I had honestly thought he was the frontrunner for adaptation, giving he doesn't lose his lunch or forget how to walk every time we travel."

Mick let out a tightlipped smile at the reference to his own short coming as well as his partner's praise.

"You're not really getting this, Cap, the travels not why he can't sleep, let's just leave it at that. And know that if you let on that you saw him, I'll know, and you'll regret it."

Rip's eyes narrowed.

"It's not my intention to. But you, Mr. Rory, should know not to threaten a man on his own ship."

Mick stood and walked to the door, turning to Rip as the panel shifted open.

"That wasn't a threat. Get some sleep, Hunter."


	2. Ray

**Disclaimer: I do not own any of these characters, just the story line.**

Ray Palmer had never had a stranger evening than the one he had last night.

Not only did it begin with a seven foot tall Venezuelan woman threatening to crush his bones into dust outside of a chemical plant, it ended with his awakening (just moments ago) from a dream of being an anthropomorphized dog in the quarantine chamber of the medbay on the Waverider, and he remembered very little of what happened in between. He did vague recall, however, of finding a windowless room in a very tall building and convincing Jax and Snart to investigate.

As Ray sat up from the surprisingly comfortable nylon travel cot that he had, presumably, spent the night on, he was greeted with the sight of a drooling thief, laying on his back, with half his limbs dangling from a bed identical to his own and a former quarterback who appeared to have foregone sleeping arrangements completely and was instead snoring loudly on the ground in nothing but his boxers and an undershirt.

Cautiously, the inventor looked down at his own attire, fearing the worst, but was relatively impressed by the retention of everything accept his pants, though he was fairly certain that he didn't own anything even remotely similar to the long, bright green socks or matching soccer cleats with their laces secured with a series of several dozen square knots that he was now sporting. But, a little part of his brain was telling him that they were a mystery for later. He sighed, tempted to fall back on the cot and hoping that the throbbing in his chest would subside after sleeping for another ten hours or so when he heard knocking.

 _Tap, tap, tap._

Looking up at the room's hermetically sealed door, his eyes met those of a very disapproving Kendra.

"So, are you back to normal, yet?" She asked with her voice muffled against the glass, though judging by her tone, Ray guessed she had already come to the conclusion that he had.

"I guess I am," he said casting another look around at his possibly comatous companions, "but they don't seem to be. What happened?"

"Well," began what could only be the distorted voice of Dr. Stein, "it appears that you and the others were gassed with some sort of early-gen inhibition-blocking compound while investigating your 'mystery room' in the Talaer Building." The professor walked into Ray's line of sight holding a number of vials that looked to contain blood samples, a thought confirmed with a glance down to his own arm. "As best as we can determine, the three of you were sealed in for any number of minutes before we could get an accurate fix on your location, and with our master thief on the wrong side of the door, it took another fifteen to get you out. As best as we can tell, you were the furthest from the pipe that delivered the gas to the room, thus, you've recovered before the others."

Ray swung his feet onto the floor before supporting his head on his hands. "That's all good, and I'm sure I'll love looking at the compound's structure when I get out, but I was looking for an answer more along the lines of what we _did_ while, uh, doped. And any hint as to why my body feels like I was run over by an elephant."

Kendra scoffed, "Well, I don't know Ray. We got you out, and the next thing we know you guys were arguing over what song to serenade us with and stripping because "everything was itchy"." She accented the quote with finger imagery. "You and Jax, at least, Snart just kinda, wandered. It would have been dangerous to sedate you, not knowing what was in the drug, but the three of you running around like undergrads on the weirdest hallucinogen ever got really annoying, really fast, so Sara and I followed Gideon's suggestion to lock you up until whatever _that_ was got out of your systems. Took us half an hour to bribe _you_ into playing a very targeted game hide-and-go-seek. And from the looks of it, they seem to have a few hours to go, so sit tight, Palmer." She then marched out the door with an amused Stein in tow.

Less than an hour had passed when Ray decided to try and wake up one of his temporary roommates. After a few minutes of poking and gentle coaxing he succeeded, momentarily, with Jax and that moment consisted entirely of the younger man sitting up, calling Ray something that could have easily been construed as racially charged and crawling onto the scientist's recently evacuated cot before falling asleep again and snoring with even more vigor. Ray gave up and moved slowly towards Leonard, who had yet to so much as twitch since the former had come to. He honestly couldn't think of a time where he had been in as close proximity to the man stretched out on the cot in front of him as he was now. Before he could think better of it, he reached out and shook the criminal's shoulder.

Snart's response to being disturbed, unlike Jax's, was immediate and far more telling of his mental state. The thief bolted upright with enough momentum to knock Ray from his position, body crouched with his mass focused over the balls of his feet, onto the floor with a solid _thud_. When Palmer regained his heading, he saw that he was been treated to a fierce, protective glare from eyes with pupils far too dilated to be anywhere near sober. Protective of what, Ray didn't know until he realized that the pillow Snart had been using was actually Jax's jacket and that he was now holding it tight to his opposite side, and as far away from Ray as possible.

Ray raised his hands in surrender at the same time that Leonard let out a biting "No, not your's."

"Hey, buddy, that's fine. Just keep it for now," Ray said calmly, while keeping his position on the floor, with his backside protesting heartily against the hard tile, hoping to make himself look smaller. He was beginning to think that whatever they were hit with ended in two possible ways: body-wide aching and soreness or heightened defensiveness; either that or he had competed in a triathlon while his friends were replaced with doppelgangers from the planet of Screw You, Ray Palmer.

"I just wanna talk, is that okay?" He asked, and sighed when Leonard nodded and turned to face him fully, releasing some of the tension in his body. Ray did the same, moving slowly to sit beside him on the cot. "So, why do you have the jacket?"

Leonard no set the ball of clothing on his lap, gently patting the leather shell, "He took it off, didn't want him to forget it," he mumbled with a slight glance towards Jax, who was still snoring on the other cot, "It's a nice coat, very soft. . . and warm." His hands moved to fiddle with the zipper.

"Leonard, you know you have to give it back, right? He's going to want it back." Ray hoped that he wasn't about to get beaten to a pulp by a ex-con when he didn't even think he could lift his own hands above his head, but he was trying his best to assess his friend's cognition.

"Of course I'll give it back, Raymond; I don't steal from my team. I'm just keeping it safe."

With the comment voiced in a particularly insulted tone, Ray finally felt as though he was hearing some original Snart from the addled mind beside him. But he also noticed that the thief's hands had moved to fiddle with his own oddly tied laces, undoing the entire column of bright green cotton before replacing the simple knots with a far more complex variety that Ray's Eagle Scout younger self would have been disappointed that he couldn't name. Leonard made quick work of the first shoe before gesturing for Ray to more the other closer, which he did, this time watching the technique and coming to the conclusion that Snart's fine motor functions were in no way lessened as Jax's had appeared when he slithered awkwardly off the floor, in fact, they may have been even more precise.

"So, Leonard, why don't you give Jax back his jacket now that we're back on the ship? You don't have to keep holding it." Ray thought he may have said something wrong when the nimble fingers halted, but then they back tracked, undoing the knots down to the tongue and building back up with another style before Leonard replied.

"He doesn't want it back yet, he got hot," and he paused before adding in the quiet tone he had used earlier, "and I like holding it. I have your shoes, too." He reached an arm under the cot's low metal frame and pulled out the pair Ray had left the ship in earlier, handing them back to their owner. "You didn't mind," Leonard said, his vice reverting to a nearly normal version of his drawl, "you were too busy telling Gideon what kind of cleats to make in the fabrication room."

"Huh, thanks. These are starting to rub." Ray quickly exchanged sport for casual and laid the soccer eyesores on the ground, watching as his companion almost instantly picked one up and rolled it in his hands before putting it back without glancing at the shoe once. Ray lifted an eyebrow before realizing that Leonard hadn't even thought about the action, simply performing it without pause, and Ray remember a friend who's mother would lock and unlock their house door half a dozen times before going inside.

And it clicked.

Hours later, when all three detainees were released and back to feeling like themselves, learned inhibitions in place and Ray was the only one who remembered anything that happened in the quarantine room, he realized that his dog themed dream was very likely inspired by an impromptu head pat by their then drugged resident criminal mastermind.

 **Notes:**

 **This is the first time I'd ever even consider writing for Raymond, and I actually enjoyed it. Who knew?**

 **Reviews are welcome and appreciated, and a very kind 'thank you' to any of you who felt the need to review, follow, or favorite the first chapter.**

 **Either Kendra, Stein, or both will be next. Maybe it wont take me so long this time.**


	3. Kendra

Disclaimer:... t.t, still don't own them

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Kendra:

As it turns out, god-gifted wings are next to indestructible; but the person they were attached to wasn't proving to be as resilient. Kendra had been taken out of the sky twice by massive blast from a wind cannon on their most recent mission, and while the first had been relatively harmless thanks to her wings being partially tucked for a dive, the second hit her with full force and she was only saved from becoming a feather and leather pancake on the side of a building because Ray had managed to grab hold of her long enough to steady her flight pattern. But, with his point of origin having been on the group next to Rip and Sara, his momentum shot them upward; Ray lifted by own suit's jets and Kendra following, being dragged along by his grip on her left wing.

The fight had continued and the crew of the Waverider managed to get away mostly unscathed while managing to recover some missing tech. Kendra hadn't even begun to feel the deep-settling soreness until dinner rolled around and by the time Stein offered a night cap she was internally debating who she was have to fight to have first go at a long soak in the ship's only bathtub. Fifteen minutes later, when her competition (Jax and Mick) had relinquished prime cleansing opportunities so as to avoid bodily harm, she was neck deep in ginger and lavender scented bubbles -Gideon's suggestion for muscle soreness.

The bath had helped, keeping her sane long enough to get through her evening routine and wrapped up in her bunk before the tension set in again. For a while she fought it, glad that Ray had opted to spend the night making repairs to the A.T.O.M. suit and wasn't around to be disturbed by her stretching and re-adjusting, but after close to three hours of waking up after just a handful of minutes of restless sleep only to find that the new position was just as bad or worse than the one before, she gave up with a sigh.

As Kendra stood her shoulder twinged and she let out a small, angry hiss, realizing that a profitable hunt for a pain reliever (preferably one as fast acting as possible) was the only thing that would allow her to get any real sleep.

In the hallway, she briefly considered knocking on the door to the lab and coaxing Ray into joining her in a 1 a.m. scavenger hunt, but thought better of it when she recalled how worried he had been about possibly having hurt her with his unorthodox rescue tactics. She carried on to the med bay and founded the few pills that Gideon had readily dispensed for her in a little cup from a pocket revealed by a moving panel on the wall. One failed swallow later, she realized that her throat was too dry to down the pills on their own. Kendra shuffled back down the hall towards the kitchen in measured steps, trying to jostle her strained back, neck, and shoulder as little as possible.

When she finally made her way into the low lit room, she crossed to the glassware cabinet, set down the disposable pill cup, and reached up for the knob with her left hand only to let out another, much sharper, hiss after a jolt of hot pain jumped in a line from her shoulder down to the center of her back. She smacked her good hand against the counter in frustration when the pain didn't recede and instead began to radiate out from the troubled joint.

"Well, I guess I'm not the only one that got bested by the last job, then," said a low, drawn voice behind her. She whirled around, another action that she immediately regretted, to face a very tired looking Leonard Snart with his hand wrapped loosely around a rather large helping of dark liquor in a tumbler that looked eerily similar to Rip's personal Waterford set. He was seated at the large table at the front of the room, having gone completely unnoticed when Kendra entered from the side door, her focus intent on getting water to wash down the medicine.

"I don't suppose you'd care to lend a hand, would you?" She asked with a weak nod towards the offendingly-high cabinet door, finally accepting that movement was not her friend.

Snart looked back and forth between the cabinet, Kendra, and the cup of pills before letting his eyes linger on the left arm that was now being cradled by her right. He shrugged, abandoning his drink before pulling himself to his feet with a low groan and made his way over to her with a stride that reminded Kendra of her own. As he got closer to the counter she could see why; he a bag of ice taped around his right knee and the pant leg on the same side was rolled up to reveal a thick white bandage around his calf muscle, neither of which had been visible, if present, at dinner.

"Oh, shit, I thought you just meant you couldn't sleep. You didn't need to get up."

He waved her off stiffly as he reached for the cabinet door, "No, just couldn't _any more_. And someone decided to monopolize the bath tub for most of the evening, so I went to sleep without soaking it." He glared but it lacked the steel that it usually held and when he moved over to fill the glass he had procured before handing it off to her, Kendra decided that she liked a sleep deprived Leonard a lot more than his normal self. After she knocked back a gulp of the water, popping the pills in after it, and swallowed she asked what he'd done to throw his knee. He shook his head.

"You first, druggy."He said with a slight smirk.

She gave him an abridged version of what lead to her current state and made a weak attempt at apologizing for not sharing ownership of the washroom, but he waved her off again before making his way back to his seat, subtly motioning for her to sit down. She selected the chair around the corner from his, sitting slowly with her back straight, praying that Rip's time period had developed faster acting pain meds than 2016, before repeating her inquiry.

He reached down to rub at the area above the ice pack before answering. "I was backed into the business end of Canary's bo staff by one of the goons we were fighting while you and the conjoined hotheads performed your avian acrobatics." He grimaced slightly as he ran over a tender muscle. "Don't think she even noticed I was there until she dodged the bullet that grazed my leg and I let out more than a few rogue phrases." As he talked, his eyes never stopped skimming over her shoulder and arms and even though Kendra's first instinct was to guard herself, it dawned on her in the same moment that he wasn't doing it intrusively, but more analytically. Like he was trying to solve a riddle.

"Wait," she said when she processed what he had told her, "that was from Sara? How did she not notice?"

"It got a little hazy for her during the fight. One of the goons landed a solid punch and I think it threw her resolve a little." He paused, smiling wickedly for a moment. "She took out the idiot that shot me. Hard." Kendra's eyes widened, remembering a loud scream sounding around them at some point during the battle.

"Did she kill him?"

"No, but I'd be shocked if he's ever able to form a proper sentence again. Or father children."

Relieved that Sara had kept at least a light grip on her humanity, Kendra forgot herself again and tried to lean against the chair back, wincing painfully when her torso protested the movement before straightening up. Snart, having watched the event with a puedo-disinterest, rolled his eyes and pushed himself up to stand again, this time so that he could walk to stand behind his companion's chair.

"Look, Saunders, it's not going to get any better if you just dull your senses to the pain." She balked in surprise when he set his palms gently on the edges of her shoulders and lead her back to the frame of the chair. She asked what he was doing and he responded with a short laugh at her tone, "Nothing that would cause Raymond to find you any less endearing, I promise, Hawk."

Snart laid his hands fully on the platforms of her shoulders, testing her reaction before setting into the massage. She stiffened slightly and for a moment he thought he had misjudged her need and was well on his way to getting a face full of feathers as a thanks for his offer, but she nodded and he began.

He started carefully, keeping the touching only to the crests of her shoulders through her thin shirt, but when she sighed and let her head fall forward, he took it as an invitation to widen his surface area to her lower neck as well, but paying special attention to her left side. Almost immediately, Kendra had to suppress a moan elicited from somewhere between pain and relief. She had never paid for a massage, relying on a boyfriend, roommate, or friend to help her out with any tough knots in the past, but she was certain that whatever he was doing to her sore muscles was not a skill that someone happened across accidentally. When she could organize her thought better, she would have to ask with where he learned it.

He worked almost systematically, his thumbs, fingers, and wrists moving in small, firm circles, sometimes settling on particularly strained areas longer before moving back to a previous spot. He hadn't realized how much he missed this. It was something that he had done fairly regularly with friends over the years, a mutually beneficial form of bonding. It calmed him.

As the minutes passed, Kendra lifted her head again and craned it around to get a look at his leg. "You probably shouldn't be standing on that."

"Hmm, it's . . . fine." Len glanced down at the wrapped knee, having all but forgotten the pain that had kept him from sleeping. "Though the ice pack has definitely been on long enough." He removed his hands from her shoulders for just long enough to undo the bag's makeshift straps and set it on the table in front of Kendra before addressing her again.

"Lean forward, elbows on the table."

She obeyed without pause, hoping that whatever magic he had performed on her shoulders would work just as productively on her back. And she was right to hope.

He moved a little more freely, less careful of restrictions now that Kendra had accepted his touch twice. He had noticed that she had foregone a bra this late at night earlier- a fact the didn't surprise him, per se, (most of the women he had known preferred it) but the fact that she hadn't tried the layer up when moving around the cold ship was interesting- and it made his navigation of her dorsal muscles all the smoother. He was actually tempted to ask her the reason for her omission, stopping himself only when he realized that breaking any more boundaries would farther exceed his self-imposed quota for daily interaction and the ship's clock hadn't even hit 2 a.m. yet.

He was still cautious, waiting for any sign from the demigoddess that he had overstayed his welcome, but one never came. Leonard was drifting just above the small of her back, running deep-reaching fingers in between the lines of her lower ribs and working the slow-to-relax muscles supporting her spine. Kendra's periodical moans were now just a running commentary of appreciative "hum"s.

After what felt like far too brief a period, he withdrew his hands, knowing that if he continued, one of their shipmates could very likely walk in hours later and find him still massaging a long since unconscious barista. And he just really didn't need to answer any of the many questions that would spark, especially from the boy scout. He stepped back to his chair and sat in it heavily, seeming to finally feel the time of night taking its toll with his head lulling against the chair back and his eyes shutting for a moment.

In the quiet seconds that followed, the barista considered their current dynamic. Kendra couldn't think of a time or place in any of her more recent lives that she had felt as calm in the presence of someone who, just a few months ago, she would have crossed to the other side of a busy street -or maybe the city- to avoid. This was definitely the most unusually exchange she had participated in since being on the Waverider, even including a near dual-to-the-death with a battle crazed assassin. The level of oddity due in no small part to the fact that it wasn't an _exchange_ at all. _She_ had been the one in need of help and _he_ , the self professed criminal extraordinar, had assisted without fuss. Then, he had offered his unbelievably skilled services (Kendra laughed lightly to herself at the thought of what their fellow Legends would imagine if they had heard her phrasing) free of charge.

As she pondered his motives, she scanned him head to toe. Even in the dim lighting, she could see that the tension she had witnessed in his arms had ebbed and the rest of his body had reverted to its standard of cool vigilance instead of the strained disposition of earlier. He was comfortable despite his obviously swollen knee and damaged calf, but giving the massage seemed to have helped him as much as it had her, reorienting them both.

"Thank you, Leonard. I think that really helped." She smiled, realizing that this may have been the first time that she had addressed him by his name, before adding, "Or maybe the pain meds finally kicked in."

He snorted in response, "Well, if you think that, I'll be sure to let you writhe in pain the next time that you stumble upon my midnight self-medicating."

Kendra's smile widen and she stood from her chair, moving without pain for the first time in hours, and started walking towards the door before pausing and doubling back a few steps so that she stood behind his shoulder. Maybe it was lack of sleep or maybe it was just the only way she could think of repaying him, but she laid of soft hand on his upper arm before ducking her head to press a warm peck to his top of his head, barely even brushing past his layer of pewter colored hair. She thanked him again and nearly out the door when she caught a gentle "Any time, Saunders." When she glanced back, Kendra was fairly certain that she could make out a faint smile in the outline of his face. Maybe it _had_ been an exchange, of sorts.

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 **A/N:**

 **This was written purely because I really wanted a neck rub after going on a hike yesterday, but I don't have a Len to do it for me.**

 **Meant to be completely platonic, but hey, to each their own.**

 **Kendra is an adorable person, so of course I had to make her cuss at least once.**

 **I _think_ Stein is next.**

 **Reviews welcome and appreciated!**

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	4. Martin

Disclaimer: : Still don't own it.

There are certain days where, from the moment one wakes up, it is doubtless as to the fact that it was going to be and interesting way. Sometimes one is aware before hand, and goes to sleep imagining what the day to come might be like, and other times it is simply a feeling that hits the moment one's eyes open in early light. Today, Dr. Martin Stein believed, was most certainly the latter.

After rolling out of bed on what he had planned the night before to be another day of working with Dr. Palmer in the onboard labs, Martin Stein could not dismiss the fact that he had that peculiar feeling in his stomach again. Not bad or even very noticeable, like a regular trim from your preferred barber; just new, like something that had been a slight bother was now gone or, perhaps, something interesting was going to happen. 'Interesting'. That had been his day to day life for the past few years. A small, easily conflicted part of his mind was begging him to lay back down and ignore whatever new oddity was to be introduced to his ever unstable ecosystem, but that small part was, of course, shut down rather quickly as he strode purposefully out to the bridge.

"Ah, Martin, just the man I wanted to see." Rip greeted as soon as he crossed the threshold, followed by a chorus of greetings from the partially gathered crew. The captain met Stein as he moved to take a seat in one of the open chairs, laying a hand on the older man's shoulder before he could sit.

"Change of plans, we are not going to jump from this time and place just yet."

"I thought we had already overstayed our welcome, what changed?" Stein asked, a disbelieving hand landing firmly on the back of the nearest chair.

"Well, Professor," came a distinctive, annoyed voice from the chair he had assaulted, "it would seem as though we drew the short straws." Leonard Snart rose from his seat and turned. "We get to play look-out while young bloods play student." Oh, there's that feeling again.

Rip rolled his eyes at Mr. Snart's description of their assignment, but digressed when it landed him a glare from the man across from him.

"That is, in gist, the idea. Kendra, Sara, and Jax are pulling a short game on a number of student workers at the university and we need the two of you," he signaled to the criminal and back to Martin, "to run interference making sure they aren't held up too long. Mr. Rory has decided to sit this one out due to his own generally disgruntled nature," a comment confirmed with a resounding grunt from the ship's adjacent study, "and Mr. Palmer and I are going to pay a quick visit to a local industrial park in hopes of find if one of the companies there has ties to any of Savage's many personas." With a glance around and no obvious dissent, apart from the near constant scowl from Mr. Snart, Rip gave Martin one finally clap on the shoulder before saying that Gideon would happily produce any clothing they wish and turning on his heel, suggesting the Raymond follow quickly unless he would like to _walk_ to the park in Arkansas' August heat.

The rest of the group, now clad AI-approved late 90s clothing, made their way into town without much fuss- apart from Jax claiming loudly from the back seat half way down Main Street that Ms. Lance was touching him 'aggressively' (a fact the young woman blatantly denied, but Martin did not doubt after a quick glance at her all-too-innocent expression) and that if she didn't stop, she'd be the first casualty the next time he and 'Gray' got their 'flame on'. With that crisis averted by Ms. Saunders all but picking the smaller woman up and swapping their seats so that she herself now sat next on Jax's right, a fact that seem to cheer the boy considerably, they unloaded outside the local university's grandiose library, the young division of their party splitting off in various directions.

Martin and Mr. Snart parked the car a few block away and walked until they found their way to a cafe across the street, in prime view of the main lobby of the library, the latter smoothly ordering a pair of nondescript drinks before moving to wait on their delivery at a table by the door. Once seated, Mr. Snart began pulling an endless stream of things from inside his understandably lightweight jacket ("No, Gideon, I need to be able to keep a small arsenal on my person at all times. I need large pockets." "He doesn't mean it literally, Gideon, and he definitely doesn't need a compartment for razor wire." "Oh, do I not, Professor?"). It wasn't until the fifth wallet appeared that Martin felt the great compulsion to shadow the table from prying eyes.

"What do you think you're doing with four extra wallets- when did you even have time to pick them?" He asked in a hushed tone, shifting is chair so that his body was between their table and a majority of the coffee slurping patrons behind him.

Mr. Snart ignored the question as he leafed through each wallet, grabbing any large bills, and instead asked his own.

"So," he drawled, "how long has the kid been pining over the Hawk? It that why you're so fond of her, you feel his affection?" As he finished each wallet, it joined the rest a the empty seat to his right. "And so far I have five extras, mine is still in the car. Only to be used in emergencies. A Tennessee native Matthew Davis just spotted us for you chai." He tapped the nylon bifold to his immediate right as he said it. "His own fault, really, it practically fell into my hand when he walked past."

"Have you ever even considered not being a thief?" Stein asked, exasperated by his partner, their topic of conversation, and their general situation. "And for quite some time, I suppose. He seemed very taken with her since almost the first day aboard, though I can't complain because I am fairly certain that without her presence -as well as his surprising enjoyment of you and Mr. Rory's company- he would have demanded I return him to 2016."

Mr. Snart nodded in response. "He settled down quite nicely when the ladies places. Good to know that he has the well developed understanding of the key facts of life that the rest of us lack." Stein gave him a confused look that was ignored as their drinks were set down by a smiling, choker wearing waitress. A moment later, a pink-encased cell phone and a matching wallet were added to Mr. Snart's pile, no doubt snagged from the poor girl's low-slung waist apron.

"I am coming to believe that Jax is the only one among the crew with a properly developed idea of what a teacher far less concerned by my thievery than you once called 'fuck or fight'." He paused to stir his coffee, smirking slightly at Martin's grimace at the words used in such a public forum. "Or more kindly put, knowing that we are supposed to survive, procreate, and provide for what we procreate. Things that all of the rest of us have failed to do at least one of in some way. And, no, I _am_ a criminal. It's not a job or position, it's a lifestyle. One that I happen to enjoy greatly, nearly as much as the money that I glean from it." He smirked again, patting the breast pocket where he had been stowing the liberated bills.

"I suppose you are not a man inclined to change his ways, and that I understand. However, I beg to differ on our wants of personal preservation-"

"Oh, would you? The childless man who left behind an apparently loving wife to risk his life to travel through time? And Rip, the man who was unable to defeat the man we now face time and time again, despite knowing that it would save his family? Sara, the self destructive assassin with an unparalleled ability to get into shit situations? Raymond is close to normal, I suppose, but considering he flies around in an atom manipulating suit of his own creation and is currently shacked up a demigoddess whose ill-named 'immortality' is more like dying too soon to ever live a full life, I think they're on the other side as well. And Mick and I are about the least well adjusted people on earth, we just happen to not really give a damn. Which leaves Jefferson Jackson, the kid thinking with his smaller brain about the only woman on the ship who might not kill him accidentally or out of annoyance and using his larger brain to keep you alive and the rest of us from falling out of the air just about every other day. Yes, it's all very poetic if you consider the fact that we're all here to save the world, but considering that what we've so far been unsuccessful in preventing won't even affect us, please, Professor, make your objections known." He ended with a near snarl, moving his hands flip back through one of the wallets he had discarded.

Martin took a quick sip of his tea in hopes of replenishing the moisture that had disappeared for his mouth during his counterpart's rather scathing review of themselves and their crewmates. "I suppose you are correct, in a cynically minded way." Mr. Snart's eyes flicked up to meet his own, brow ticking upward at his far from agreeing tone.

"Well, then I suppose cynicism is the new realism." He drawled while Martin collected his thoughts a little more thoroughly before continuing.

"But, Leonard," Martin resisted the urge to backtrack as the man opposite him very nearly balked at the use of his first name in such a companionable tone, "suppose that our very participation in this mission is our assured value of life. With knowledge that the future could be what it may without our intervention, why would any of us fight to have normal lives, raise families and the like, knowing that or descendants and those of the ones we care about could never have a chance at such a life. Suppose that this mission isn't one performed out of hopes of tributes to our memories, but is perhaps our own best version of provision for the future and preservation of self through preservation of livelihood as we have each come to enjoy it; you, myself, and Rip as a criminal, professor, Time Master and the others by what they I hope they will eventually choose to commit their lives to. None of this is to say that we are not each very flawed human beings, but it also doesn't mean that any of us are less whole because of our tendencies towards the borderline self-destructive." He took another sip from his tea, this time to consider Mr. Snart's reaction to his words. "Part of the human condition is the human experience; pushing boundaries and changing natures in hopes of improvement, often against such key natures as protection and procreation."

"Well, Professor," he moved to adjust his chair to the side, incidentally throwing it into the footpath of a man walking to the door and nearly sending him to the ground if Leonard hadn't shot out an arm to steady him. After a quick mutual apology and a pat on the back, the man was out the door and Mr. Snart was leafing through another wallet. "As philanthropic as you believe our crew to be, I believe you have over generalized our intentions. Kendra's tired of dying, you and Raymond are fueled by a love of the scientific, Rip doesn't want to be a widower, Sara need a place somewhere away from the civilized parts of the world, Mick wants to watch the word burn but only if he's the one doing the burning, and I want to pillage and plunder with a time traveling getaway vehicle. Again, the kid sticking around to keep you alive and kicking- even getting to roast a few people along the way- still comes out on top." He had picked well this time, soft, dark leather and four hundred bucks in cash. He smirked, emptying the rest of the contents out onto the pile before pocketing the money. His fingers, however, continued to run back and forth of the material in his lap.

"So, this is a draw, then. A difference in perspective of two decisive men?" Leonard nodded his agreement as he took a first sip from his owner drink. "How much longer do you think they'll be, do you think?"

Mr. Snart glanced outside, "Not long, they've had plenty of time. Though I'm guessing Jax is dragging his feet."

"And why is that?" Martin asked and Leonard laughed, never taking his eyes off the street or his hand off the wallet that he was still toying with.

"Wouldn't you rather march around a well conditioned college campus with two pretty women when the alternative is another twenty minute car ride at max capacity in the middle of nowhere Arkansas? I'm sure my twenty year old self would."

"Hmm, and would that choice be more or less simplified in the mind of a younger Leonard Snart if the building were, in fact, a library instead of, say, the ladies' dormitory?"

Much to Martin's surprize, Mr. Snart barked a short laugh.

"And with that question, I am resigned to the fact that you still think that Raymond is the one behind the continued disappearance of your more interesting texts." It had the desired effect of Martin's eyebrows nearly shooting off his forehead and his jaw going slack.

"You keep taking them!? I've been blaming Raymond for weeks!"

"Honestly, the fact that I was hiding them for you to find should have been a giveaway. Do you really think _Raymond_ would take the time to stuff a quantum mechanics volume into your pillow case." He takes another swig of his coffee.

"In my pillow cas- it was in the pillow, Leonard. Sewn in!"

Mr. Snart shrugged. "It gave me something to do after I finished the book."

Martin threw his hands up before catching his head in them and resting his elbows on the table. "You could have just asked for the books and left them outside when you were done. Gideon had to replace my pillow six times."

"It'll be seven, actually, not that you've had a chance to notice yet." He smirks as he receives a glare.

"And we should go, I think our charges are coming out."

Stein turned to see the threesome walking of one of the side entrances and he stood, waving and catching Sara's attention through the window before gesturing that he and Mr. Snart would meet them at the car. Leonard dropped a five on the table as he stood ("It's on Rebecca Straught this time.") but was held up by a pointed glance from Martin at the small clutch of wallets he was leaving behind. "Oh, no. They stay behind, much better chance of being return that way. Just a quick source of cash, then I dump any extras. Getting caught with a few hundred dollars of unknown origin is more explainable than half a dozen wallets. I usually do a mailbox drop so they get shipped back, but there wasn't one on the walk over, so we'll just have to trust the waitress to be helpful." With that, he pocketed the leather wallet that was still in his hand and took his leave with the professor a few steps behind.

"They why bother? Rip provides any money we may _need_ and anything else isn't going to be covered by a few scraped together hundreds." Martin asked when he was finally in stride beside Leonard again.

"To be clear, Professor," he began in a surprisingly lofty tone, "those wallets alone got me over a grand. My marks, like everything else, are specially selected for maximum output. But, yes, it was relatively needless and, if I were a saint, I would drop the cash in the crusty hands of a withering, old bag lady on our way back to the ship. But, of course I am not, so I will not. Next time, in Thief Psychology 101, we will talk about what to do when you come across a drunk one percenter- hint: the answer is not to pay for their cab can with your own money."

"Fine, point taken, you _are_ a criminal. But, then why keep the other wallet? Especially after telling me that you rarely ever use one." Stein asked and watched as Mr. Snart's hand drifted to the pocket where he had stowed the piece in question. He expected a quick remark about exceptions to the rules or even a short "Because. I can." What he hadn't expected was the slight surprize that he saw flash over Leonard's face as he stopped and fished it out of his pocket, or the quite "Dammit." that followed.

Martin's eyes shift between the man and the wallet that he was quickly stuffing back in his pocket as if getting it out of sight would change the situation in some way.

"You didn't mean to actually take it."

Leonard glanced at him out of the corner of his eye before blinking his eyes shut. ". . . No." He started forwards again, but as Martin followed, he saw the younger man's hand drift up again to the breast pocket.

"You mean it, don't you?" He didn't wait for answer, the paled scowl he got in return was enough. "You didn't know you took it. Does that happen a lot?" Martin could see him debating whether or not to answer truthfully, or at all.

"No, not often. But often enough." He admitted after a moment, drawl weakening.

"Is that what happens with the books?"

"No, the books are commonplace. Reading intensively helps distract from . . ." he waved his hand loosely around his temple, pace slowing to a near stand still. "Picked it up the first time in prison and never really tossed it. It's not a theft thing, Professor, it's not why I do what I do."

"No, I would expect that would be too straightforward for you, Mr. Snart, you enjoy being a contrary man nearly as much as I enjoy being an academic one." Martin sighed turning to face Leonard slightly now that they had both stopped again. "So, then, why the wallet?"

His shoulders raised a dropped, a decisive shrug. Ever the contrary.

"I guess I liked the texture more than I thought. Like I said, it happens, just not in a long time. Usually I'm better at . . . stopping it."

"And I would guess that being on a ship with seven other people, hopping into new times and places every week, doesn't help to control wandering hands."

"Makes it quite a bitter hard, actually. But you should have seen me after a week in solitary confinement- once accidentally started a riot because I wanted to mess with the radio in the cafeteria. Mick thought it was hilarious." The last bit held more than a little unintended bite.

"So, he knows?"

"Of course, who do you think started the riot when I snapped off the knob at full volume?" Martin nodded at that.

"Oh, well. New wallet it is. Come on, Stein, the youths will be getting impatient. Wouldn't want them to think I'm conning you out of your presently reserved heist-maidenhood."

A joke. Truly, always the contrary.

While on the drive back to the Waverider, Martin spared a glance into the rearview mirror, marveling at scene: Jax smushed into the middle seat ("I don't wanna talk about it, Gray."), glaring forward with all his might with both women having claimed a shoulder as their preferred headrest, fast asleep. A second glance off the road told him that Mr. Start was nearly as stoic beside him (though notably less hostile towards present company) with his hands clasped in front of him, supported by the arm rest, and a hat commandeered from none other than the 20 year old grump behind him pulled low over his eyes, blocking out the afternoon sun.

He remembered the feeling in his stomach for this morning. An interesting day, indeed.

A/N:

Aaannnd, there's Martin's chapter, _pheww_. This was really long, whoops.

*I don't like 'Miss', so Stein refers to Kendra and Sara as 'Ms.' even though he _knows_ their not married (in this life, atleast) and its supposed to be an 'if/maybe' title*

I kinda would love to write Jax's next, but his is last, so, yeah.

Sara's next, though, so that's cool.

Thank you to everyone who has read/reviewed.

Reviews are welcome and appreciated!


	5. Sara

**Disclaimer: : Still don't own it.**

Sara was going to be late. Again. Even after swearing to her mother up and down that there was no way she would miss their lunch date, she still hadn't managed to pull herself into the mindset of an attentive daughter quite quickly enough to have her shit together. So, there she was, scouring her room in her underwear and a pair of jeans she was fairly certain didn't belong to her, if the fact they were pooling at her feet and refused to sit on her waist- favoring her mid-thigh instead- was anything to go by. Finding civilian clothes (i.e. those of the right era and without gross blood or sweat stains) was proving to be nearly impossible and she was about fifteen seconds away from stealing a sweater of Kendra's and running out without even making an attempt at her hair or makeup. Groping her arm around under the cabin's desk, she let loose a celebratory shout when her fingers brushed a familiar zipper and hauled out the mate to the gray leather boot she had already forced onto one bare foot.

Her exclamation, unexpected in the nearly silent ship, grabbed the attention of Leonard, who had been walking towards the cargo bay in hopes escaping into the city for an afternoon of harmless and definitely not heist related reconnaissance while avoided the all-too-watchful eyes of his boringly moral crewmates. Changing his trajectory, he appeared outside Sara's door just in time to witness the aggravated assassin try and fail to fasten a boot in concert with a desperate, one handed closet search, falling on her rather pleasing ass while doing so.

"And to think, all of that training and you can't even get dressed properly; what would Ra's Al Ghul think?" He made no attempt to keep the obvious humor out of his voice, drawing out the taunt with a cool chuckle. Some part of her brain had registered his arrival, but with the distraction at hand, it was not quick enough to keep her from having to fight off a surprised reaction.

"Leonard, unless you can make a mother-presentable shirt appear in my hand in the next five seconds- Leave. Me. Alone." She waved him out without turning to face him, knowing that he would only be more amused by the fact that her face was flushed. His only response was to take another measured step into the room. This time she turned on him.

"Look, I said leave, or I swear-" She didn't just to finish the threat of life and limb she had poised on her tongue because she saw that he had moved from the door to crouch to the left of her bunk.

"Just strip, Lance." He pawed gently through the small mountain of clothes that had been building up since the last time she had been in charge of laundry. "You'll get laughed of Central City if you go out like that. How did you even manage to get your hands on a pair of Ray's pants, anyway?"

 _Oh, that's why they were so frickin' long._ Sara didn't move to take off what few bit of clothing she had scrounged up until he produced her beloved red henley from the pile, followed closely by a pair of dark wash jeans that she had thought had gotten left behind on the last leg of their last mission. She took the clothes with a quiet 'thanks' as Leonard returned to his task, this time moving to the bottom draw of her dresser and digging until he found a pair of half-shin socks that would suit her needs.

"Sara, you do realize that we have a room that exist purely for the purpose of creating attire applicable to just about any imaginable situation, right? All of that," he gestured with the sock-holding at her general state of disarray, "was completely unnecessary, acrobatics included."

She made a sound halfway between a sigh and a groan, "I know that, Snart. I didn't think Gideon could pull something together fast enough. I was already going to be late and the last thing I needed was to be provided with an infinite amount of choices."

Sara sat on the edge of the desk to slip on the socks, boots following quickly, and straightened up to find Leonard now holding her belt in his outstretched hand. Another hushed 'thanks' and she set to threading it around her hips and the room was quiet until he spoke again.

"At this point, I should probably tell you that we convince Gideon to move your clock up fifteen minutes.

Sara stilled immediately, one hand holding the excess leather of her belt while the other held the buckle. She looked up, meeting his amused stare with a withering glare.

"You what?" If she hadn't seemed so affronted, he would have acknowledged her tone with something besides a smirk.

"Well, last time we docked and you had a chance to meet up with someone, you got so caught up wit being back that you very nearly missed it. And you complained that none of us came to your aid for a solid week; so, this time, we were proactive. Just a little adjustment and you would run out the doors at what you thought was five minutes late but was actually ten minutes early."

He sighed when she ran an annoyed hand through her hair, glower still in place. "It would have worked fine, too, except I couldn't stomach the idea of you running around in Palmer's pants." That said, Leonard took it upon himself to lounge across her bed, propped on his elbow, his expression as resilient as her own.

Sara grumble at his obvious self-righteousness before glancing back at the blur digital display over her shoulder.

"So, I still have seven minutes."

"You're cutting it close, but yes, Mother Lance will not be disappointed. Well, at least not as long as you re-snap a few buttons on the shirt and do _something_ to . . .that." He accentuated the remark with an encircling wave to her disheveled hair. "Or do you want her to think you're new job includes hooking up with strangers in dark alleys as well "traveling to remote locals"?" He asked with a sly smirk accompanying the allusion to the half-baked line she and Palmer had adopted as her standard line told to those who weren't read into their actual mission.

"You're an asshole." Sara griped, but took his (rude) suggestion to refasten a few of the lower buttons while turning to take in her own reflection in the mirror suspended alongside the room's control panel. He was right, she realized with an internalized moan; unless she could figure out how to make herself look respectable in the next five minutes, her mother would never buy that she was a somewhat well-adjusted, resurrected adult.

"Dammit," she mumbled as she began forcing a brush through her hair and skimming the dresser top for her usual make up utensils, "Snart, I need you to see if my charcoal liner is under that oilcloth."

She watched- flipping her hair to the other side and continuing to brush to make sure it was thoroughly detangled- as he pulled himself off the bed and crossed the room with a near glide to his place, evenly maneuvering over the weapon-and-clothing-strewn floor. Leonard lifted the cloth and rubbed it between his thumb and index as he picked around on the surface beneath with his free hand, looking for the pencil-like tool.

Sara was already rubbing a light layer of foundation on when he handed her the eyeliner, the black tube of her mascara also dangling from his fingertips. She took both without question and began forming a fine stripe just above her lash line with the former.

"Shit, I need like four extra hands. What do you think, fill in the brows?" She said it jokingly, trying to throw him off his game. He was being far too helpful. Instead of responding, he moved to stand behind her, snagging the large-toothed comb off the dresser on her other side and started using it to collect her hair into a loose ponytail towards the rear of the top of her head.

"What are you doing back there, Leonard?"

"Just speeding along the process, Canary. And the brows are fine . . . for now. Will you be fine with a top knot?"

"Uhh . . . yeah, that's fine." Sara replied with halting surprise, but he hadn't actually waited for a response, already having pried open the dresser's top drawer and was rooting around with one hand still supporting her hair until he produced a small box of bronze colored pins.

"How the hell did you know those were there? Have you been snooping around in my underwear, Crook?" Both eyes now lined, she moved to uncap and apply the mascara.

"Don't flatter yourself, Lance," was his only response, fingers now separating out thick locks from the rest of the pony. It took several seconds of focusing on his specific movements for the assassin to realize that he was forming a pair of shapely French-style braids in loose lines, one off either temple, heading back to the partially formed bun. Once completed, the ends were ended back into the band and he finished the bun with number of twist and loops that Sara had nearly stabbed herself in the eye with the applicator brush while trying to follow. A handful of tugs, fluffs, and pins later, he nodded to her in the reflection of the mirror.

"There. And your black jacket is still hanging by the cargo door from yesterday."

"Thanks, and I'm done, but there's hairspray in the bathr-"

"You won't need it, not with that bun. And its not windy out." He gave her a last scan from head to toe before nodding again and glancing at his watch.

"Time's up. Have a good lunch, Sara."

She could have sworn that she saw a small smile on his features as she bolted out the door.

Hours later, well-fed and feeling as though she had fulfilled her duties as a daughter Sara returned to find her room in perfect order. Dirty clothes now clean and put away, weapons stored, clutter now properly organized into receptacle that hadn't existed when she had left, hell, even her bed was made. Though she wondered if a bed could be considered 'made' if a particularly smug looking criminal was stretched along it, boots and all with his arms crossed behind his head.

"Thought that you may like to be able to actually find your underwear next time."

Sara shot him a glare that quickly morphed into a smile.

"So, if I'm a sex worker . . . I guess this makes you a maid, Leonard. And a hair stylist. Not bad as far as alternative occupations go."

For a second she swore that he saw his brow furrow, as if he were uncomfortable.

"I assure you, it was not my intention to purge your bedroom as . . . intensely as I may have. I actually just came into clear your floor a little, but once I started, there wasn't any stopping until it was an inhabitable living space again."

His tone was off, no drawl or inflection. He stood quickly made for the door, all air of pride now gone- replaced with something far closer to shame then Sara had ever seen on his normally cool exterior.

As he brushed past her into the hallway, she could just make out a quiet "Sorry, Sara."

Her hand shot out on instinct, catching his arm just before he was out of reach.

"Thank you, Len. I never would have done it, so . . . thanks."

She was surprise when he physically relaxed at her words and touch, releaved at her show of appreciation, like he had been sure he would be berated. A weak smile broke through before a smirk overpowered it and his eyes flicked up to meet hers with a firm stare.

"Let's just not let it get the horrendous again, Lance. I might just get Mick light it all on fire next time."

While sparring with Kendra later that night, Sara confided that the other woman's observations about their crewmate may have been correct after all.

 **A/N:**

 **So, there's that. Jax is next and last :)**

 **Sara always strikes me as surprisingly normal around her family, considering all the crap she's been through; more receptive and responsive, and no daughter like that want's to dissappoint.**

 **Reviews are welcome and appreciated!**


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